


und wir ertrinken

by ladynephthyss, neednot



Category: Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/F, Gen, Narrator is 17, Title Translation: AND WE DROWN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladynephthyss/pseuds/ladynephthyss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neednot/pseuds/neednot
Summary: "we are in the dark. the black. do you have any idea the thing you would become?"[manderley is a place of rules and she is expected of only a few things: be polite, be silent, and uphold the new name. blending into English aristocracy proves to be more difficult than she bargained for. after a connection with a member of staff proves too difficult to resist, the girl finds there's more to this country, and to Mrs. Danvers, than meets the eye.]
Relationships: Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca) & Narrator (Rebecca), Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca)/Rebecca de Winter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a long work in progress, but it's finally here! first and foremost, i must thank my dear, my darling @neednot for co-authoring this little fic of ours. you've helped me so much and have been able to be such an amazing sounding board of ideas and scenes. this fic would not have been written without you and i mean that. love you so much. <3

A C T O N E

.

.

.

_the artist_

My socks are wet. 

I notice the distinct discomfort after only a few minutes standing outside the parking area, trying not to be jostled by other hurrying travelers and their suitcases. Newquay was a busy, bustling place, and from what I could tell from my surroundings, eternally steeped in wet grey. The rain is slowly working to a steady downpour, and in vain, I hug my thin jacket around myself with one hand. The other holds an old suitcase with my scarce amount of clothes. Cars and buses on the wet road, tires hissing. An occasional blaring horn from an impatient driver. I finally situate myself against a concrete pillar connecting a sort of overpass near Gate 32F. My accompany had left me at baggage claim, what with only a few minutes between my arrival in England and being picked up to my destination.

The woman at the Yellowgate Community Home seemed to have only painted this new cousin as mysterious, British, and a man wanting to do some good. If “good” encompassed taking on a cousin that hadn’t known about his existence until a few months ago, I wasn’t entirely complaining. It was better than Yellowgate, and certainly better than the hospital, an opportunity for new experiences, new places--even if my parents weren’t here. Everything in my life was uprooted, leaving me constantly dull, flat, and with a broken sense of direction.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and I watch pockets of people scurry for cover to avoid being completely soaked by the growing storm. I pull out my phone, which was essentially waterlogged at this point to offer myself some form of distraction before remembering I didn’t even have a SIM card for the UK.

“Madam?”

I blink. An older man stands in front of me, umbrella over his head. He has thinning hair and a kind smile.

“Yes?”

“I’m Frith,” the man says. “Mr. de Winter’s driver. He requested me to fetch you.”

Confusion and then disappointment makes my stomach sink like a hard stone. My cousin couldn’t even come get me himself? And he’s rich enough to have a driver?

“O-oh,” I stammer. “Um. Thank you, Frith .”

Another kind smile. “Of course, Madam,” he says. “I’ll take your bags for you.”

He takes the suitcase from my hand and sets it into the trunk. Holding the umbrella over us both, he opens the back door and it takes me a moment to realize that’s where I’m supposed to sit.

“Thank you,” I say. I couldn’t think of anything else to tell the man. I nervously clamber into the backseat of the car. It’s warm inside and bigger than I would have thought. Several buttons and switches are set on the inside of the door, controlling heavens only knowing how many things. A television screen is set into the seat in front of me, softly showing a report of the news. It seemed to be raining for the rest of the week.

“Given the weather, it will take some time to get to the estate, so feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Firth calls over his shoulder, turning the ignition. The car purrs to life, and I jump a bit at the heating underneath my seat, unexpected. Even with the relatively modern space of the airport, it’s only about ten minutes for the space of buildings and concrete to give way to lush and open countryside, dotting of towns and villages every few miles. Even though it was relatively grey, the underlying beauty was still evident to me. At least I would have open space. This is a positive up step to my childhood yard of suburbia. I stare at the grey English countryside, leaning my cheek against the cool glass of the window.

It’s the shift in gravity that makes me open my eyes sometime later. The light grey of the sky has now sank into complete night, and blearily, I wonder how long I had been asleep. We’re moving uphill, slower and steadier than I would have thought, and the rain seems to have no sign of stopping. I sit up, wincing at the slight crick in my neck from sleeping in such an awkward position. There’s a crash that makes me start, and I try to peer into the dark as to what it was.

“Nothing to be frightened of, Madam,” Frith says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “I suspect you’ve not lived by the cliffs and water before, have you? It’s a bit of start for most, but you’ll soon be used to it.”

“The water?” I ask, squinting my eyes a bit to try and look outside. Barely there, I can see the dizzying height of cliffs only a few feet away from the main road, blocked by a thick steel bar. As we turn a corner, the unmistakable sound of water crashing on the rocks below comes to my attention, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment I imagine our car tumbling down to the darkness below. How long of a drop? 

“Do you like it?” Frith asks.

My teeth release my bottom lip. “I don’t know.”

“It’ll be a bit nicer when the weather changes. Not that long now.” 

The prospect of there being anything other than grey wetness seems unlikely, but at least it’s something to look forward to. After a few minutes, we finally level out in our ascent. A long stretch of avenue seems to come forth like a dark vault, dotted with trees that were close to meeting overhead. After a minute or so, the headlights reveal a clear space and the shadowing force of a large but immensely long house, illuminated at a few windows and by the casting light of lamp posts outside .

It’s only when he stops the car that I feel the heavy drag of exhaustion going through my veins. The trip must have taken a couple of hours, given the stiffness of my limbs. Frith opens my door, handling my suitcase and holding the umbrella. Slowly, I step out, taking my bag from him with a hesitant smile.

The entrance door is huge, made of massive curiously shaped panels of some dark wood with big iron nails and bound with iron bars.

I nearly trip over the last step, but manage to catch myself. This brief hesitation gets me soaked to the skin as the door is opened by a neat, thin, older man who gives me a courteous nod.

“Madam,” he says, and opens the door.

The hall is enormous, and the sudden change to bright light makes me wince and look up at the massive chandelier overhead. It’s iridescent, swaying ever so slightly from the wind outside before the door is shut firmly behind us. I can’t help but feel small and uncomfortable with such a massive place, even if it is leagues warmer than outside.

It’s a second before I look to a sweeping staircase and see the multiple pairs of eyes on me.

There’s several of them, men and women, dressed semi-professionally, a combination of pants and skirts of varying shades of grey. Bright white pins and engravings are attached and stitched to shirt and jacket fronts. The same circling, swirling emblem that marked my parents' will and brought me to Manderley. House de Winter. I look to Frith, who gestures me forward to the man who opened the door for me earlier. For a moment, mortification rolls through me at how I must look to them, a young girl dripping with rainwater and worry.

“Madam,” he says, and to my surprise gives the slightest of bows to me. The gesture confuses me so much, I can’t even really smile as a form of politeness. “My name is Robert. I’m the second in staff. I trust your voyage was pleasant? Going across an ocean is no easy feat.”

He has a demeanor to him that’s formal but warm. It makes my shoulders loosen just a bit, and I manage to give him the smallest of nods. But second in staff? Who’s the first?

I’m close to opening my mouth to ask before hearing something to my left. The steady click of low heels.

With my suitcase by my feet, I’m clutching a pair of gloves to my chest that I thought I would need, and to my surprise, there’s a soft thud as they land on the floor. I bend down to get one, but suddenly there’s a hand in front of my chest, stopping me.

“Let me,” she says, and her voice is a rich, low alto. Embarrassment makes my hands fidget as she hands my gloves back to me. I nearly drop them again, but catch myself.

I straighten up and look at her.

She’s tall with a sharp, angular face. Her skin is pale, and her hair swept back into a braided bun. There’s an untouchable air about her, like she was something out of a painting or a sculpture in a museum. As she moves into the light, I see her black hair holds a streak of grey. The sight confuses me. She looks like she’s in her mid thirties. She’s not dressed like the others. Entirely in black, her long skirts sweep in a simple but elegant cut all the way to her ankles. There’s nothing to soften her appearance, nothing to make her seem welcoming. She’s intimidating for sure, but that doesn’t explain why such fear comes over me at the sight of her.

Her gaze locks onto me, and the action is so immediate that I feel cornered in this large, almost hollow entrance hall. Her eyes are an intense, stormy grey. For a moment, I am looking over a sheer drop, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. Wondering how long I’d fall before hitting the water. I feel a dull ache in my lower lip. My teeth relinquish their hold and something in her gaze sharpens as I do so.

“Hello,” I say quietly.

Her eyes scan my face, and I fight the heat in my cheeks at my surely sorry state.

“I’m Mrs. Danvers. I'm the house steward here,” she says. “I apologize for the unorthodox reception. Mr. de Winter is otherwise preoccupied, but he will meet with you soon enough. Any questions or concerns that you have will be directed towards me until your maid arrives. Clarice will help you in the meantime.” There is a cool, controlled cadence to her words. A breath of a pause. “Is that a problem?”

I have to snap myself out of my reverie to realize she has asked me a question.

“It’s--it’s fine. I don’t want to be a bother. I’m fine without a maid. I mean--." I force myself to stop talking. I fight the urge to duck my head and keep my eyes fixed on my wet shoes. There’s something about her grey eyes that holds me still. My heart gives a small stutter.

“Sorry.” I exhale a bit of a breath. “Thank you...for helping me.”

If she has a reaction to that, she doesn’t show it, folding her hands in front of her. “Robert,” she says, eyes not leaving my face. Has she blinked? I don’t remember. “Was it entirely necessary to have the whole staff here?”

“Orders of Mr. de Winter, ma’am.”

Mrs. Danvers gives a tiny, almost invisible nod before addressing me once more. “You’re tired. Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

For a moment, I realize she didn’t say it in the form of a question, but I reach for my suitcase before she stops me with a single look. “No. Someone will take it for you.”

A small gesture of her hand, and the rest of the staff disperse into other directions, a machine. I clutch my gloves in my hand and follow her up the grand staircase. It only serves to add to her near ghostly quality. Her assured footfalls. Her heels clicking against the steps that eventually give way to the long, upstairs corridor. It fills my head with their rhythmic sound. If I reach out, I can brush my fingers against the edge of her jacket. Just so. No. No, I can’t. 

Various paintings and portraits line the walls, and I catch a glimpse outside the massive arched windows. Beyond the rain is a sprawling yard, complete with an ornate fountain in the middle of a circle of gravel. Distant, I can barely see the top prongs of the massive iron gate of which we drove through. We ascend another flight of stairs.

I almost collide into Mrs. Danvers’ back, not realizing she’s stopped by a door. She produces a small key from the dark folds of her skirt and unlocks it. There must be a faster way from downstairs to my bedroom, because my suitcase is right outside. Hesitantly, I pick it up.

“This will be your room,” she explains, holding the door open for me. “It overlooks the rose garden, but unfortunately with the rain--”

“Oh, I-I don’t mind the rain. I like it,” I cut in, and then chastise myself for interrupting her. I give a half-hearted, apologetic smile that fades quickly at the still expression on her face. There’s nothing malevolent about it, but the intensity in her gaze jumbles my thoughts up.

“You’re tired,” she says after a breath of silence, and it’s only when she says it that I feel she’s right. I am immensely tired.

I look at the array of clothes laid out on the bed which I hadn’t noticed when we immediately stepped into the room. Three pairs of pajamas, plain grey. I wince at the sudden change of light as she turns on the lamp beside the bed. It’s bigger than I would have thought, a massive four poster canopy with a dark brown comforter. Four white pillows rest at the headboard, and attached to the canopy is a tasseled cord. I see it’s connected to curtains all along the four corners of the bed. A grand cocoon of drapery in muted gold.

“The bathroom is on your left,” Mrs. Danvers says. I set down my suitcase and follow her. She flicks on the light. Porcelain and tile, immaculately white. A shower to the far left, toilet, sink, and the biggest clawfoot tub I’ve ever seen. There’s a heavy pattering noise, and I look up. Situated on the ceiling is a massive skylight.

“Toiletries and essentials will be restocked every two weeks.” Mrs. Danvers explains. She turns off the light, and for a few seconds, we’re both in the doorway. The buttons of her jacket are small. Detailed. Delicate. There’s a silver chain traveling from the bottom button which disappears near her left hip.

There’s a slow, certain tap of her heel against the white floor.

I blink, looking up at her face. Again, nothing malevolent. Just...impassive. It’s a second before I realize she’s waiting for me to leave first.

“Sorry,” I say, and move. She closes the door behind us. I go to the other side of the bed, something solid to keep distance between me and this black-clad house steward.

She looks at the clothing on the bed. “They’re in varying sizes. Pick what fits and leave what doesn’t on the hope chest. They’ll be picked up in the morning.”

“My suitcase?” I ask, shifting from foot to foot.

“You’ll be provided with new attire.”

“New attire?” I look down at my current clothes. I’m not attached to them, not really, but they’re one of the few things I have from my old life. “But--”

“Is that a problem?” She’s fixed that steely gaze onto me, and once again, I don’t know what to think, or what to say for that matter. I duck my head, focusing now on my shoes, the feeling of my still damp socks. Mrs. Danvers takes a measured step closer to me, and I fight the urge to step back at her increasing proximity. “I...understand this may be a difficult set of circumstances you find yourself in, but I can assure you _no one_ in this house will give you harm or cause you discomfort.”

The way she says ‘no one’ makes something run down my spine. I nod, and manage to unclench my stiff fingers to rest them against the bed. There’s leaves and vines embroidered on the thick cloth, and the change of texture is a strange, yet welcoming feeling.

Mrs. Danvers turns over the covers by a corner, revealing snow white sheets underneath. A strike of lightning splits the sky and I jump, a startled noise escaping my throat at the burst of ghostly light and the sound left in its wake. Mrs. Danvers moves over to the large window, drawing one of the curtains back to secure the latch.

“You’re not used to storms,” she murmurs, looking at the sky.

“No.”

She turns back to me. “It’s coming in from over the sea. You’ll enjoy it soon enough.”

“Okay,” I say, and I’m surprised at the small smile that creeps over her face--or maybe I just imagined it. She looks like a ghost out of some book, pale and tall against the window, as if waiting for something to come back. Quietly, I slip off my shoes and manage to remove my socks with some maneuvering. The floor was freezing, even with the ornate rug that covered some portion of it beside my bed.

Mrs. Danvers looks me up and down. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re cold,” she says again and there’s something in her tone that breeches no argument. She crosses over to a fireplace set deep into the wall. With ease, she picks up something on the mantle and crouches. I watch as a match is struck. Flame dances too close to her fingertips as the mix of wood and old newspaper catch fire, soon settling into a crackling. The warmth makes my cold toes curl ever so slightly. She tosses the match into the fireplace.

“Do you require anything else?”

Again that intense gaze of hers, like she knows something about me that I don’t yet know myself.

I shake my head. Mrs. Danvers nods and makes her way towards the door. Something about seeing her leave, leaving me alone in this room makes a jolt of panic run through my body. I take a step forward.

“Wait!”

She stops, turns, and looks at me. Her eyebrow raises ever so slightly. It’s a few seconds before I realize she’s waiting for me to say something.

“Will I see you at breakfast?” I blurt, and she cocks her head, looking at me intensely. Something in her gaze shifts that I cannot place.

“Perhaps,” she says, and before I can respond she turns on her heel and leaves the room. I don't know if it's loneliness at her sudden absence or exhaustion that hits me, but I feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. I haven't cried since the funeral, haven't let myself, but I feel the sensation of it now washing over me.

It’s all so strange, all of it, this new place and country and house and these people I don’t know, and I’m supposed to get through it alone?

_How am I supposed to get through this alone?_

I shed my clothes, leaving them in a wet heap on top of my suitcase. After slipping on the set of pajamas, I climb into the bed. I curl up on my side into a ball, clutch the sheets under my chin. They don’t smell familiar and that just makes me cry harder, because they don’t smell like home. I don't know how long I lay there.

Sweetness comes to my senses and I sit up. Gravel pinches into my feet before giving way to the tickling of grass. It’s a dizzying scent, and with the coolness of the air, it’s enough to make me want to lie back once more. But I keep myself up and move on forward, passing the range of wood making itself stone and finally to green.

_Come._

My mother is there, blonde hair like mine loose about her shoulders. The heights of trees overhead. Bare feet light on the earth.

_Come to me. Come!_

I do, nearly tripping over myself. Laughter bubbles out of her throat as her arms extend out to me and our fingers just brush before she’s moving backwards again. A gust of wind tosses my hair about my face, and for a moment I can’t see, can’t think beyond the feeling inside of my chest. I brush my hair from my eyes and see her frown ever so slightly, glancing over her shoulder at something beyond the flowers. My mother turns back to me, extending her arms-come, come to me!-but I can’t. She steps backwards again, and like some strange, winding doll, disappears among the roses. Smiling at me. Laughing. Yearning.

"Come, my darling."

Her eyes. There’s something wrong with her eyes.

My cheeks are wet as I lift my head from the bedsheets, laughter dying from my mouth as light from outside drifts into the room from the massive, deep windows.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a woman in my room. 

In my lingering drowsiness, I wonder if it’s Mrs. Danvers. But it can’t be. This person is too short, and she has brown hair, loose about her shoulders. She’s crouched and sweeping something from the fireplace, which died overnight. 

I let my eyes wander from her to the walls. There’s a massive landscape scene hanging on the wall directly across from the bed. Fantastically dressed people under the trees, hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.

There are others, people running from the group, hounds at their heels. Red tongues. Wide, white eyes. There’s something wrong in the image. I can feel my stomach turn the longer I look at it. 

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the painting. 

She stands and points also. “That there?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s Black Earnshaw.” She gives a good natured grin. “Do you like it?” 

I glance back at the painting. Trees a bit too dark. The stars are too bright. “No.” 

She laughs. “That’s because you’re not used to it yet. It’s only a drive away from our spot, though some say it’s better on horseback. You won’t see the groves until it gets warmer, but it’s a sight. Fallow deer come through too, if you’re quiet enough.” 

“Why is it black?” 

“The trees. Some say they're the same as the ones in Germany. The pines grow to be so dark with their trunks. They’ve called it black ever since. I’ve been only once. There’s an odd sort of witchiness about the place, but interesting enough.”   
  
She’s young, early to mid twenties. She wears the same colors as the staff yesterday, grey, but instead of a skirt and blouse, she’s in overalls. Pinned to her chest is that swirling “M”. 

“Are you Clarice?” 

She grins again. She has a slight gap between her two front teeth, and it only seems to brighten her facial features. “I am! I’d shake your hand if it weren’t for the state of mine. We’ve not had one so young in this house that wasn’t a guest. You’ll bring cheer, I’m sure of it.” 

There’s such warmth in her tone that my shoulders instantly relax. A positive assurance that somehow things would be okay. I pull back the covers and let my feet dangle over the bed. Clarice dumps her sweepings into a nearby trash can. I don’t understand what she meant about her hands. From my view, they looked immaculate. 

“Have... have you heard anything from my cousin?”

“Mr. de Winter? Didn’t you know? He’s off to London, some business or the other.” My face must show some worry because she shakes her head and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Nothing to fret over, Madam. He often has these trips.” 

“How often is often?” 

“Oh…” a burst of air passes her lips. “Three or four times a month, I would say. Some longer. Some shorter. Between you and me, I don’t think it decent letting one such as yourself come from America to a big, empty house.” Clarice pauses and cocks her head at me. “How old are you, dear?” 

“17.” 

“You are young. With one like Mr. de Winter, we don’t know when he’ll be back most of the time, but Mrs. Danvers has us keep the house ready. Just in case. If you want, I could ask her—” 

“No!” I glance down to the ornate rug, embarrassed at how forceful my request sounds. “I’m sorry. I mean—” 

Clarice gives a noncommittal wave of her hand. “It’s alright. She’s a stern woman to be sure, but she’s fair. Kind, even. If you glimpse it. You’ve no need to be nervous.” 

“Easier said than done.” I say softly. 

“I’ll ‘appen that’s true, given your lot. If you want my advice, don’t pussyfoot.” She laughs at my bewildered expression. “What do you call it? Um, be direct. That’s what works best with her. Say what you mean and mean what you say.” 

“And if I can’t?” 

Clarice blows a tuft of hair from her face. “Would you like your drink inside or the balcony? Mind you, it’s a bit nippy. Manderley has a way of keeping winter all year.”

It’s then that I see the tray. Cup and saucer. A teapot. Other fixtures. 

“Um, balcony, please. Thanks.” 

She nods, lifting the silver tray in her hands. I get out of bed quickly and undo the latch of the balcony door, holding it open for her. In the light, I can see the bright brown of her eyes, the dusting of freckles on her cheeks and nose. There’s an old scar just near her temple. She’s pretty and makes me feel at ease just looking at her. 

The balcony is wide and large, situated with three chairs around a decently sized breakfast table. It reminds of something one would see outside of a café. Like I was told late last night, I can see the endless maze of gardens below me. Underneath the overcast sky, however, it looks to be an seemingly endless expanse of wet brown. 

“The balcony. It’s not wet.” I say, lifting a foot from the smooth ground.

Clarice sets down the tray. “Whoever built this place so long ago had a mind for angles and drains. Makes our jobs easier, I think. Can you see Black Earnshaw?” 

She comes over to my side, pointing into the distance. I squint, trying to follow her direction before catching sight of what she is pointing at. A ghostly ocean of tall, bare branches. “That’s it, just there.” 

“It’s huge!” 

“The leaves are all gone now, but it’ll be a sight when the weather turns.” She turns her attention away from the forest, back to me, eyeing my clothes. “I’ll get you a jacket first, then give the chair a once-over—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine with the cold, really. And I’ll wake up more if I stand, I think.” 

Clarice glances down at my bare feet. “Some socks then? The weather takes some getting used to.” 

“I’m fine. I like being barefoot. Feels better.” I say, tucking some hair behind my ear. 

Clarice grins. “Of course. I’ll leave you to it. Have a good morning, Madam.” 

I almost wince at the title, but instead manage a smile. It falters when she gives a slight curtsy and then moves back inside the bedroom before exiting out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her. My fingers trace along the smooth marble of the railing, cold to the touch, and let the feeling shock me into anything other than potential rumination. The reality of my situation is already threatening to hit me full force like a freight train. I don’t want to think. Not now. 

So I don’t.

The cups must be china. The word floats in front of my eyes, a half formed memory of me at two years old, a grandmother holding me. Rows and rows of whites and reds and blues. Things I could only look at on the wall, but never touch. This has blue too, intricate flowers that I’ve never seen before. Carefully, I lift up the teapot—it’s heavier than I thought—and do my best not to burn myself as I pour.

It smells earthy, a bit like cinnamon and almonds. I gingerly take the cup in my hands, turning back to the large expanse of Manderley—or what I can see of it anyway, the twisting maze of gardens and hedges, even the pronged iron gates down that massive stretch of road. 

The house feels frozen. Stuck in a space of time that don’t exist anymore. 

_What does that make you?_

My bare toe scrapes the marble. 

With an exhale, I raise the cup to my lips and take a taste before scrunching my nose. Herbal tea. In desperate need of cream and sugar. I haven’t poured much, barely filling the first third of the cup. The warmth of hot liquid inside the delicate object slowly brings my cold fingers to life. 

I turn from the view of the garden and back to the table, ready to reach for the silver platter before letting out a scream. The teacup slips from my fingers and shatters on the balcony. Cornflower blue and white cast in front of my feet. 

Mrs. Danvers does not take her eyes off me. Again, there isn’t any malice or hatred in her eyes, just a flickering of something I didn’t understand. My heart begins thudding inside of my chest as I start to take a step forward. 

“Vivienne,” she says. 

My name comes from her mouth with such forwardness that I freeze like a deer in headlights. Something shoots down the curve of my spine so fast I wince, but I force myself to remain still. She takes measured steps around the table. She’s in front of me and crouches with ease, picking up the pieces of my broken teacup and setting them back on the tray. I nearly totter over, my foot still frozen in the air from my interrupted step. Her hand takes hold of my bare ankle, steadying me. I see a ring with a dark blue jewel on her finger. 

“Did you cut yourself?” Mrs. Danvers asks. 

I dig my nails into the palm of my right hand. “It’s not—” 

Grey eyes pin me with their stare. ”Don’t lie to me.” The look she has me locked in doesn’t match the cool tone of her voice. As if daring me to do just that. 

I swallow. “No.” A breath of pause. “Are you cold?” 

“Why?” 

“You—” I totter again, and her grip tightens. “Your hands are cold.” 

Carefully, she releases my ankle, and for a moment I think I feel one digit ghosting over my skin. Mrs. Danvers rises to her full height. I slowly place my foot back down on solid ground. 

She’s dressed similarly to last night. Long black skirt, low heeled boots. Her blouse is blinding white and as she adjusts the pocket-watch near her left hip, I see tiny white buttons securing the sleeve all the way from her mid arm to her wrist. She has a waistcoat too, as dark as her skirt and completely buttoned. But there’s something that catches the light, and I’m suddenly enraptured by a pendant of dark, brilliant blue clasped close to her throat, the color stark against her pale skin. 

“You aren’t dressed.” Mrs. Danvers says. “Was the clothing insufficient?” 

I blink. “What?” 

“Your current state of dress only tells me that something isn’t to your liking. What is it?” 

Grey cotton pinches slightly at my left shoulder. I reach up and adjust my sleeve. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

A nod. “Are you also aware that you’re not wearing shoes?” 

“I don’t like shoes.” 

“You don’t like shoes,” she repeats. 

I give a nod. “Barefoot is better.” 

“Your feet must be freezing.” 

“Cold feet, cold hands. I guess we have something in common.” 

Mrs. Danvers’ eyebrow raises slightly, but she doesn’t say anything. A sort of dim terror strikes me. She’s the most frightening woman I have ever seen, and yet I can only look and look at her. She tilts her head ever so slightly when asking me questions. Listening to me. It happened when she said my name after the cup broke. Broken blue against her fingertips. 

“Have you decided what to eat?” Mrs. Danvers asks. “Or will you continue to stare at me as if I’m your meal?” 

I blink, stomach twisting. “Sorry.” I duck my head and move past her, sitting down at the table and trying desperately to make sense of the menu left on the tray. “I, uh-” My knee is bouncing. It almost collides with the edge of the table. “What do you like?” I look up at her and try to smile. It doesn’t work. 

Mrs. Danvers considers. “Red meat.” Her voice has a subtle accent. It’s British, I think, but there’s an underlying placement of vowels and consonants that don’t seem to fit the intended sound. Her hands clasp in front of her. “But considering the weather, you may enjoy something hearty. Perhaps the eggs Florentine.” 

“The what?” 

“Two halves of a toasted English muffin, topped with spinach, ham, poached eggs, and hollandaise sauce.” That dull tone. “It’s American.” 

“Oh.” 

Again, she has no reaction to my cluelessness, and being unable to read any internal feelings from her facial expression makes my teeth begin their habit on my bottom lip. 

The balcony is higher than I thought. A wide, smooth railing of marble. I can climb, my bare feet catching on solid grates. Land on grass. Maybe gravel. Backwards or forwards? Break my neck. My leg. The light snap of a femur.

The ground, rushing towards me. No, I’ll take my time and teeter. Leap as light as a feather, and then plummet like a rock. 

The question : will she stop me? Cold, pale hands, grabbing my collar, yanking me back. No. No, her arms will encircle my waist, my back against her chest. Sink into a chair and let my fingers curl into her waistcoat front. 

“Vivienne.” 

Cold air fills my lungs. Grey eyes. Searching. 

“Yes.” My fingernails have left tiny crescent indents in my palm, blooming with half pain. “Yes, I think that will be fine.”

*** 

Mrs. Danvers is right about the breakfast. I feel warm and satisfied. She tells me to get dressed and meet her in the foyer in ten minutes. As I shut the door of the balcony behind me, I look to the side of the bed. My clothes on top of my suitcase have disappeared. 

_It’s fine._ I think to myself. _This is a fresh start, that’s all._

A large, dark wooden wardrobe is set near the tapestry. I cross over and open it. It’s completely stocked. Shirts in varying sizes, skirts and pinafores. I run my hands along cuffs and collars. My fingers sink into something thick and soft, and I bring out a winter coat, its edgings lined with some kind of lush, spotted fur. I put it back. 

I open the second dresser. Something cool brushes over my fingertips, and I grasp the object, holding it up to the light. The dress is long, hitting my ankles, and ghostly white. A high collar is marked with faint, delicate embroidery like cobwebs, barely visible unless I squint. The sleeves are long, and thin enough that I can see my hand through it if I push with some effort. 

I shed my pajamas and put it on. 

The underlying material is thicker than I thought. White linen on pale skin, the dress cinches slightly at my waist. I reach behind and do up the three buttons at the high collar. A hangnail catches on the fabric and I wince at the pull, sticking my finger into my mouth. Bite off the point. Limp, dead hand shutting the wardrobe. I pull on tights and let cotton soothe me into movement. There are boots, too, by the door. Black ones with a low heel. 

It’s odd, I don’t look like myself. This clothing is old, and I search for the word in my head before it floats into my mind.

Edwardian.

I am not myself. I am a ghost from a long gone era from hundreds of years ago. Back when they used that old calendar. They keep the names, old names. 

And yet, the material is anything but. Obviously expensive. Meant to make one feel elevated. Instead, I feel dull and flat. In the passing glance of the mirror, I trace a finger along my cheek, the corner of my mouth. 

The car. Faded blue and caked with weathered soil. The horn is so loud. It makes my head hurt. The lights make my eyes hurt. A fingernail scrapes, catching the ground with static. 

I set down the brush and leave the room. 

The hallways is a fixture of pattern: window, table, painting, portrait. The names written underneath these faces are in a bold script, names like “Astley" and “Darwin-Wedgwood” and “Pearson” and “Kepple”. I look at them, the numbers of men and women stuck in scenes of hunting on horseback or sat in rigid chairs. I look outside a longer stretch of three windows. The sky is cloudy. 

Gripping the handrail as I descend the stairs, the cool wood does something to center me at the sight of Mrs. Danvers. She’s watching me come down, pale hands clasped in front of her. 

I come to the bottom step.

Mrs. Danvers gives a tiny nod. “You’re punctual. A desirable trait in a place like this.” 

She begins walking away, and like some lost child, I follow her. Luminous, white rooms, living rooms, and sitting rooms, and reading rooms bloom into my view on all sides. Thick wooden doors painted white with brass knobs and handles. I wonder where they all lead. I wonder if they ever end. As we pass underneath an archway leading into a long, tiled corridor, two members of staff pull back the heavy curtains from one of the massive windows, arched frames touched with drowning, white drapery of some thick material that barely brushes the pristine white floor. 

What light that comes into the hall catches the handle of a comb in Mrs. Danvers’ intricately braided hair, iridescent with small sets of stones. I study her; I study the weaving turns and twists of her thick dark hair and then realize with sudden shock what those stones are. _Diamonds_.

“Did I do something wrong?” 

Mrs. Danvers stops so abruptly that I very nearly collide into her back. She turns to me. “No. Why would you think that?” 

There’s no emotion in her tone, and I duck my head. My thumbnail digs into my palm. 

“I just-” 

“I would appreciate it immensely that you keep eye contact when engaging in a conversation with me.”

My head comes up. “Sorry. I’m just not used to all of…” I gesticulate half heartedly to our surroundings. She doesn’t follow my movements, keeping her eyes on me, but I can tell she considering. 

“I can empathize with that. I hope it’ll bring you comfort that I’m completely able to answer the questions you have.” 

It doesn’t. Not really “Are you sure?” 

“I wouldn’t have said so if I wasn’t. Today is meant to help you navigate around the estate. Manderley is a large place and it’s very easy to get lost.” She starts walking again and I have to scramble a bit to keep up. 

“We’re in the _corps de logis_. It consists of the principal rooms, state apartments, and one main entry.” She gestures back to the foyer. “The most important rooms are on the first floor above ground level. This floor is the _bel étage_.” 

I should be paying attention, but I’m too busy listening to how French sounds when she speaks it. 

“ I’m sorry, core? Bell?” 

“ _Bel_ ,” she stresses. “Noble floor. Main reception, bedrooms, and servants quarters. It also contains some minor rooms and service rooms. They’re meant to have finer views and more practically avoid the mess of street level. You’ll have to learn the proper terminology in reference to this estate.” 

Her tone doesn’t breech any room for discussion, and wordlessly I nod. But the words hang in front of my thoughts like some bad picture, merciless in their desire. 

The dead eyes of a stag follow me between a painting of a hunting party and sleeping dog. 

I look upwards at the ceiling, not initially noticing the array of celestial paintings, a swirling mix of colors that makes me slightly dizzy. This isn’t a house. It’s a museum. 

“How old is this place?” 

“It depends on the section of the grounds. Overall, Manderley underwent extensive restoration during the first and second World Wars, but you can find a bit of the original architecture dating back to at least 1325, give or take a few years before or after the death of Edward of Caernarvon, King Edward II.” 

I must make a sound in the back of my throat because she eyes me. “Does that make you nervous?” 

_You make me nervous._ I think harshly, but I shake my head. “No, it’s just...big. Really big.” 

“I suppose it is.” I suppose she would be used to this by now, the manner in which she describes our surroundings seems to have a creeping edge of boredom.

“This is flanked by lower secondary wings. They form a three sided courtyard that’s called the _cour d’honneur_.” Asides from the recreational areas and garden for each section, beyond them are the more ornate fixtures, orchards, ponds. There’s a direct path from the back veranda to the stables.” 

“You guys have horses?” 

“Of course. Manderley prides itself on pure blood.” There is a definite edge of… something in her voice. But before I can make it out, it’s gone. “Grey Rosaline was one of our most famous before she died last spring. Won seven championship, and damed three champions of her own.” 

So, stables and gardens and orchards. I’m completely over my head. Utterly common. 

“Am I allowed to see it?” I ask, hesitant. “The stables, I mean.” 

“This is as much your property as it is Mr. de Winter’s. You can go anywhere you wish, as long as it isn’t difficult to find you. It will certainly be beneficial for your introversion to avoid the principal house once the weather turns.” 

Introversion? She’s completely right, but I don’t understand how she’s able to read such a thing off of me when we’ve barely spent an hour together in the twenty four hours since I arrived at Manderley. I’m too hesitant to ask. 

“Why?” 

“The estate is more a historical function than anything else, so you won’t be surprised to find guests for dinners, curators, and tours coming through on a regular, if not daily basis. We have a number of historical artifacts, both within and outside of the Manderley family line. Most of the display are situated in the principal house on the first floor, including the North Library for our older, preserved records. We cycle them with four national museums in the country. There are about four galleries ranging from Renaissance to Pre-Raphaelite art, excluding the later centuries on the second floor, and the sculptures. Neo-Classical, Baroque, and Rococo.” 

“You have a room for sculptures?” 

“We have three for each type. We’re on our way there.” 

Before I came to England, to Manderley, I had only a slim opportunity for the perusal of sculptures, or any real piece of art for that matter. Northern California offered plenty of visits to national parks, standing underneath the towering weight of redwood trees with wide eyed classmates in the third, fourth, and fifth grade. Even then, my fingers itched to take the smooth, muddy red bark against my skin and transfer it into something eternal, held together by a picture frame. Christmas at 13 offered me sketchbooks and charcoal from my parents, and then I was off, sliding and smudging across brilliant white paper. My late night fingers stained black. Those tools remained, freshly bought before the accident, tucked in my suitcase upstairs underneath three or four sketchbooks and a photograph. 

As we walk, I see staff moving about, the greys and whites of their uniforms the same color of the overcast sky, bleak and framed against the lush ornaments and paintings lining the halls, reflecting on the floor. This place is clean, almost uncomfortably so, and too chock full of swords and landscapes and portraits of the very old or very dead. It immediately depresses me, all that cleaning and moving and adjusting from the staff. Plaques underneath things never to be touched, only observed and marveled at from a clear distance. 

Everything with a place and purpose. 

Everything except for me. 

I play with the cuff of my dress. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Yes.” 

“What...what do you do? You said yesterday—last night, I mean—that you were a house steward?” 

We reach a massive oak paneling of a double door, painted white with brass handles. Mrs. Danvers reaches into her waistcoat pocket and produces a key on a small chain. 

“I’m the most senior member of the household staff. In short, my responsibilities include the smooth running of the household, checking supplies, engaging, dismissing and disciplining lower servants, and controlling the main household accounts.” 

“That’s…a lot.” A pause. “Do you like it?” 

A definite pause. She opens the pair of double doors. “It’s my job,” she says, and I can tell that’s all she’ll say in the matter. 

I bite the inside of my cheek and follow her inside.


	3. Chapter 3

The room is spacious with a massive skylight that makes up most of the celling. The white of the outside corridor gives way to pure patterned marble of white and dark grey. At least two dozen marble statues of various shapes and sizes are set inside of this room, cold curves catching the light. A plaque is situated on immediate entrance: 

FIGURES OF THE NEOCLASSICAL ERA (1780-1850) 

“In collaboration for our historical records, a few national museums allow a display of their artworks here at Manderley during their own off seasons.” Mrs. Danvers explains. “Lady Elizabeth Graves lived in Manderley in 1802 and had a liking for marble. It became something of a tradition as the years went on.” 

I circle around a male figure, his white eyes fixated upwards at the ceiling while one hand holds an arrow just about to pierce his heart. I can’t help myself, and press the tip of my finger to the point. 

“I like this room,” I murmur. 

I move over to another, larger. More ornate. A woman, naked and dancing. The tips of fabric are pinched between her fingers, frozen mid turn. Her mouth is set, and her gaze is direct to something in the distance. I move beside her and follow her gaze, surprised to find on the other side of the room a massive, raised sculpture of a man on a throne, crown in pieces at his feet. One arm is extended, a thick finger pointing down towards the base of his surroundings. I step back with a start. Eyes, hollow and black. Mouth slightly agape. Wild hair. A severed head on a silver tray. 

“Salomé,” Mrs. Danvers says. The word rolls inside of my head, and I mouth it, tasting the weight on my tongue. 

“I remember.” A rainy afternoon. Flipping through myths. No. Truth. The Bible. Pity, sudden and striking, pains my chest. “Poor John.” 

“If she can’t have him living, she’ll take him dead. A bloody kiss was what she wanted, Vivienne.” Mrs. Danvers’ voice is cool as she walks closer, hands clasped behind her back. 

“What she thought she wanted,” I say softly. Carefully, I trace the line of John the Baptist’s cheek with a finger. I pause, trying to test my words carefully. “You don’t call me...like the others. My name, I mean. You use it.” 

She studies King Herod, the lines in his mouth. “It’s your name. I’d assume you’d want it used.” 

“What’s your name?” 

She looks at me then, and there’s a flicker of something on her features. Surprise, maybe? I’m not sure. “You will call me Mrs. Danvers.” 

I rock back on my heels, testing the weight of my black boots. “Alright. What’s your name, Mrs. Danvers?” 

Silence. She stares at me intensely. I force myself to hold her gaze. Then, her voice breaks the quiet, very soft. 

“There’s more to show you. Come.” Without another word, she turns on her heel and begins to exit. One more glance at Salomé, and I follow her out.

As we come back out into another main corridor, we turn another corner. This house seems to be an endless maze of rooms and hallways. She’s right about the potential for getting lost. There’s another door at the end of the corridor, and she sets that key into the lock, turning it with a solid click. 

“This is my office.” 

There are bookshelves on either side of the room, holding texts, folders and files, and various books with different months and dates printed to their spines. We come into what looks like a small waiting area, a few chairs, small bookcases, and a coffee table. 

She leads me underneath an ornate, twisting archway that reveals an inner, spacious room. Dark wood makes up the rafters, the shelves, her desk. It’s massive, holding only a few papers and a computer. Behind her office chair is a long stretch of window. She draws back the heavy drapery with surprising ease, letting some natural light into the room. Gardens greet my vision, and far off, a small door leading into a maze of hedges. 

There’s a glass case near another window. I look inside to see an array of pinned butterflies, labeled with a neat, delicate script. I turn from it, catching the sight of a painting on the left side of the room. Three soldiers, their arms outstretched to a man in a red cloak, holding a bundle of swords. 

THE OATH OF THE HORATII (SECOND VERSION)   
JEAN LOUISE-DAVID (1786) 

“Your office is really nice.” I say. 

“Thank you.” I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her finger is tracing the words of some document in a folder, eyes scanning over pages. 

I see a marble busk on top of another bookshelf. A woman, her hair covered and wearing a circle of stars. She’s weeping. 

“Who’s that?” 

Mrs. Danvers replaces something in a drawer. “The Theotokos.” 

“What?” 

She doesn’t look up from the drawer. “Mother of God. Mary.” 

That warms me. I nod, looking up at the bust again. “Is this house just full of sad Biblical figures made of marble?” 

“Not at all. There’s an El Greco portrait of the burial of Count Ogaz on the second floor. He’s far from Biblical.” Suddenly, she sinks down into her chair and gestures for me to take the one on the other side of her desk. A small box is slid over to me. 

“This is for you.” 

“Oh.” I fumble a bit with the packaging, but manage to open it. A sleek grey smart phone, one of which I’m certain isn’t even on the market yet, is fit inside of the white box. I turn it over, looking at the swirling letter “N” on the back. Naos. A company that made products I couldn’t even dream of affording. “I—you didn’t have to—” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Oh,” I say, ignoring the embarrassment in my gut. “Well, still, thank you, but I don’t understand—” 

“Mr. DeWinter considered it a priority to equip you with the necessary tools for your enjoyment. Everything is already set up. The Wi-fi extends anywhere on the property. Music services and Internet are paid for. Your bank account will be refilled the first of every month, but for now you have a starting balance of about £8,500—” 

_“£8,500?”_

She raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” 

“I just don’t understand. Why are you giving me money?” 

“I’m not giving you anything. I’m following orders.” Mrs. Danvers pauses for a moment and lets out the smallest of sighs. “You are an extension of House DeWinter. Meaning your clothes, your education, and your…monetary assets are all reflections of the grandeur and history of this estate. Welcome to aristocracy.” Her voice is dull. 

I don’t know what to say. On instinct, my thumb presses the button at the bottom of the screen. A lock screen of a painted blue sky greets me, displaying the date and time. 

“If you require anything, my number is already in your contacts, so you won’t be needing the house phone.” 

The thought having such immediate contact with her makes something in my stomach move, and it isn’t my breakfast. She leans every so slightly back in her chair, drumming her fingers against the armrest. 

“If you are…uncomfortable with the phone, you can find me here. Face to face may be easier.” 

“I don’t want to bother you.” My eyes study the shape of clouds on the small screen. 

“It’s not you who makes that distinction, now is it?” 

I bite my lip, worrying the flesh with my teeth. 

“Stop that,” she says, and her voice is so firm that I start, looking up. “Unless I’m correct in thinking you want to make yourself bleed?” 

“I… no, Mrs. Danvers. I’m sorry,” I say, and immediately my teeth want to sink back down into my lip again, so intensely is she looking at me. But I don’t allow myself the indulgence. 

I wait in silence, feeling her gaze on me. Finally, I look up. She’s still studying me, her grey eyes locked on my form. 

“Mrs. Danvers?” 

Her head snaps up. “Yes?” 

“I… what am I supposed to do? Here, all day? While Maxim is gone, I mean.” 

Mrs. Danvers shrugs. “I suppose you’ll figure that out.” 

Her tone has changed to something cold, and the rejection stings more than I thought it would. More than I’d like it to. “What do you do?” 

“Like you said. I run the house.” She smiles, all teeth. “Plenty here to keep me occupied.” 

“Can I… I don’t know, can I help you with any of that?” 

“You wouldn’t know where to begin,” she says, not unkindly. She cocks her head, again studying me. “What are you worried about? Being lonely?” 

I shake my head. Loneliness is something I’m used to. “No.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“I’m afraid of—” _Being alone with whatever goes through my head when I look at you._ “Being… being bored, I guess.” 

She scoffs. “You have all of this money, this entire estate at your disposal, and you’re worried about being bored?” Something crosses her face. “I wouldn’t let your cousin hear you say that; he detests boredom. It’s why he’s never home, why he won’t be in this big empty house without her. She was the one who brought it to life, you know. She was never bored. Or boring.” Something like an actual smile crosses Mrs. Danvers’ face at these words. 

“Who?” 

She fixes that dark gaze on me again. “Maxim’s wife, the late Mrs. de Winter.”  
“I didn’t know there… was a Mrs. DeWinter.” 

“There isn’t. Not anymore,” Mrs. Danvers says sharply. She pulls out her pocketwatch, looks at it. “You’d best run along, Vivienne. I have things to do—and no, you cannot help.”

I nod, or at least try to, and stand. She’s opened a drawer and pulled out a small stack of files, clicking a pen, and setting to work. She had a neat, sweeping script. The shape of _a_. 

“Do you need something else?” she asks without looking up. “I doubt it’s interesting watching me.” 

I shove down the thought in my brain and fiddle with my new phone. “I-uh-” I can’t really speak. Mrs. Danvers looks up, waiting. 

“The library is back down the corridor,” she says. “The door should be open. Perhaps you can find something to watch or read. We have plenty of books and movies." 

I want to sink in the chair and watch her do something. Anything. But I nod. 

“Okay. Thanks.” 

Mrs. Danvers says nothing, pen connecting to paper once more. 

***

My days have begun to blur. It rains so often in Manderley that I can’t keep the full passage of time. On the part of my own activities, it’s an endless cycle of waking up, breakfast, and getting some sort of information from Clarice on the nature of today’s activities (which is almost exclusively made up of leaving me to my own devices). As long as I stay out of the way of staff, I’m free to do what I wish. 

We’ve barely spoken since that day in her office. Mrs. Danvers, I’m certain, is a busy woman. But some long days I want to hear the assured sound of her low heels walking in the long hallways. It doesn’t come. Clarice is my only sense of normalcy in this house, willing to direct me to new rooms unexplored or helping me find my way back to my room. 

On a cloudy day, I find myself on the further reaches of the garden. Exploration outside has been suggested to me by Clarice, and given the continual boredom I endured inside of the walls of Manderley, I could at least find something outside of it. 

The gardens are as much a maze as the house is. Enough turning and twisting and eventually, I find myself lost among thick, high hedges, with only the suggestion of a stone wall peeking out above the green. It smells like wet earth, not unpleasant. I’m used to that sort of thing, but given the slight uneven terrain underfoot and the awkward heaviness of my coat, my trek is slowly becoming more and more difficult. I glance upwards at the sky. A sheet of grey, yes, but unlikely to rain. I work at the buttons of my grey coat, thick black buttons that easily become undone. 

The hedges seem sturdy enough. 

I adjust the sleeves of my dark blue sweater and let my hand disappear into the foliage. A sturdy branch meets my fingers and I grasp onto it, hoisting myself up with my foot against the brush. It holds, thankfully, and I scramble for another branch hidden in the thick bush. After a minute or two, I manage to catch the cold, wet stone with my fingertips, then my hand, and finally lift myself up onto the wall. Even the tallest trees barely blocked the sight of the estate, and I could the suggestion of sunlight, far out over the sea. Bracing myself, I manage to bring one leg up, resting my foot against the edge of the wall, and I push myself to standing. 

The cliffs are far out, stark against the sky. Beyond the immediate grounds, leaning to the east, is a faint suggestion of thicker forest barely visible, but what catches me is the open plain of moor and meadow before the dead drop of the cliffs into the sea. I squint. The faintest suggestion of the sun is far out on the water. The sea, a surrounding mass of white and grey. I reach out a hand to trace the light-

It vanishes to a tumbling grey sky as I fall, the scent of rain and roses lingering in the air.


End file.
